


Emerië

by the_artifice_of_eternity



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Timeline What Timeline, legendarium ladies april
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 19:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14244357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_artifice_of_eternity/pseuds/the_artifice_of_eternity
Summary: Weeks before her ascension to the throne, Ancalimë sees her mother for the last time.





	Emerië

Ancalimë came to the sheep-fields of her childhood in a litter borne by four servants. When she stepped out from behind the silk curtains, the breeze on her face was the pungent smell of shorn wool, of rain-damp earth and grass baked under the spring sun. “Wait here,” she said. “I won’t be long.” 

The house was exactly as she remembered it: walkway swept, walls freshly whitewashed, lavender and honeysuckle winding through the trellis above the door. Ancalimë knocked three times; then she stood, listening to the bees bumbling overhead and the distant bleating of sheep, and clamping down on the tight-strung feeling she told herself was impatience.

She was debating whether to knock again when the door opened, revealing a slender girl in white, her dark hair twisted up in a simple bun. “Where is the Lady Erendis?” Ancalimë demanded, stepping decisively into the front hall. “Tell her the King’s Heir has come to see her.”

“The Lady is helping to oversee the first shearing.” The girl spoke in a near-whisper, as Ancalimë had known she would, and her eyes were cast demurely at the floor. “Let me offer you some refreshment, while you wait for her.”

She led Ancalimë to the kitchen, where she laid out bread spread with goat’s cheese, a clay dish of olives, and a pitcher of milk still frothing at the edges. It was good, wholesome food, the kind that tasted best after a long afternoon running barefoot through the fields. Ancalimë did not touch it, but stared at the edge of the table long after the serving girl had left, twisting a golden bangle back and forth across her wrist. 

It felt like an hour before Erendis appeared in the doorway. She wore a plain white dress stained with grass at the hem, but there was iron in her shoulders as she crossed to the water basin and began to scrub her sun-browned arms, barely glancing at Ancalimë. “You should have sent a messenger ahead. If I’d known you were coming, I would have prepared your room.”

“I won’t be staying the night.” Ancalimë tried to use her court voice, the firm, imperious tone that could ring through a room and draw every eye to her; in the dim little kitchen, it just sounded like she was shouting.

“Nonsense,” Erendis said, patting her arms dry with brisk efficiency. “It’s twenty leagues to Armenelos. What do you mean to do, camp at the roadside?”

Ancalimë’s nails dug into her palm. She already regretted coming. She’d thought she could sweep into her mother’s home in gold-embroidered robes, with jade in her ears and strings of pearls threaded in her hair, armored in the certainty that her choices had been the right ones. But it seemed she could still be knocked askew by no more than the hiss of wind in the grass, the distant snatches of women singing, the memory of firm, steady fingers drawing a comb through her hair. Ancalimë had been happy here, and Erendis would always hold that like a noose around her throat.

“We’ll put you up in the guest room for now,” Erendis went on. “Azrî can find you something practical to wear. I don’t suppose you still remember how to card wool? We could use an extra pair of hands.” 

“Ada has laid down the scepter.” 

Erendis slapped the wet cloth abruptly down on the counter. Her laugh was brittle. “So early! Has the Lady Uinen stirred his loins again?”

“He believes me ready,” Ancalimë said coolly. “He would give me the throne now, at the height of my strength, rather than cling with withered fingers to that which cannot be held.”

At last, her mother turned around, and Ancalimë saw with a jolt of shock how _old_ she had gotten: her hair white under its cloth wrap, the skin around her eyes sagging. “Generous,” she said softly. “He has ever been open-handed with those that please him! From certain angles, I suppose it even resembles love. But you would do well to doubt anyone who keeps such a loose grip on the people they claim to care for." 

A welter of conflicting urges rose in Ancalimë: to defend her father, to storm out, to draw her mother’s head to her breast and comfort her. She forced them all down. She had not come here to tread the weary paces of this endlessly familiar conversation. “I ascend the throne on the feast of Yestarë, three weeks hence. I thought you might wish to come.” 

Erendis’s lips twisted, the sorrow in her eyes replaced by a hard, bitter amusement Ancalimë knew well. “Why would I wish that?”

 _Because I am your daughter._ “You always told me that men fashioned Númenor, for their own benefit and pleasure. Does it not please you to see a woman take power in her own right, and claim this land as her equal inheritance?”

Erendis was already shaking her head. “You are a fool,” she said. “As much a fool as your father, if you think his passing whim can rewrite the nature of the world. They will never let you rule. The Council is against you, and Soronto is conspiring with your dearest husband to puppet you from behind the throne.” 

There was no judgment in her voice, only resignation, and that above everything else was what finally shattered Ancalimë’s control. “Do you think I don’t know my enemies?” she snarled. “Do you think I expect them to hand me power willingly? I have no such delusions. I will have to fight for every hour I sit upon the throne. But it is the fight I have chosen.” She met her mother’s eyes, lip curled. “You are a pitiful woman. Do not bend, you told me! Sink your roots into the rock, and face the wind! But you are bent beyond recognition. All you know how to do is hide.” 

She wanted Erendis to answer with barbs of her own, wanted to see some echo of her own rage reflected in her mother’s eyes. But Erendis just regarded her steadily. “This fight you have chosen will destroy you,” she said. “It does not matter how strong or clever or ruthless you think you are. Your enemies have weapons that you cannot wield. As soon as you master the rules of engagement, they will change them. And if by some chance you manage to prevail, they will still convince the world that you won by a trick, and did not deserve your victory.” Ancalimë flinched as Erendis pressed a hand against her cheek, skin soft and wrinkled as old parchment. “Do not give them what they want, _onya_. Refuse to fight. Deny them your will and your effort and your concern. Deny them yourself. It is the only way you can win.” 

And though she hated it, Ancalimë understood. Her mother had staked her claim long ago on the few things she could truly hold. A white house. Fresh baked bread, and milk poured frothing from the jug. A field of grass golden in the sun. 

But Ancalimë would not settle for such a life. Where Erendis had shrunk in bitterness, Ancalimë would rise. And she would never stop demanding more from the world, however many times she was refused. 

“I return to Armenelos,” she said, rising abruptly. “I will look for you at my ascension, though I do not expect to find you.” 

“My roots are in Emerië,” Erendis said, turning away. “I will not leave again.” 

Ancalimë returned to her litter, drawing the curtains against the bleating sheep. She did not look back to see a white figure on the steps of a white house, who stood and watched her disappear into the endless expanse of field and sky.


End file.
